


O Christmas Tree

by Candymacaron



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Christmas Fluff, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Holidays, Humor, M/M, Pining, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-02
Updated: 2014-12-02
Packaged: 2018-02-24 23:59:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,957
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2601140
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Candymacaron/pseuds/Candymacaron
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holiday fluff in which Gwaine is a busybody, Merlin is a tree farmer, penguins are gay, and Arthur gets some for Christmas. (fic + accompanying art)</p>
            </blockquote>





	O Christmas Tree

**Author's Note:**

  * For [bunnysworld](https://archiveofourown.org/users/bunnysworld/gifts).



> To Bunnysworld, Happy Merlin Holidays! *hugs* I hope that this fluffy little fic pleases you. I had a lot of fun playing with your wonderful prompts, and I tried to make the fic & art have a "storybook feel", like holiday picture-book. :D
> 
> A thank you to the invaluable gypsylongstocking for first beta, and to the talented [Camelittle](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Camelittle/pseuds/Camelittle) or being my Britpicker extraordinaire on this fic. :)
> 
> Additional Notes:  
> The Albion Tipper mentioned is real, produced by the now defunct Albion Automotive. For more info, visit: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Albion_Motors

Arthur’s pining started with a rude observation from a half-naked neighbour.

“Your decorations are shite, mate,” Gwaine had said, sloppily buttoning his shirt with his left hand, the right pinned on Arthur’s doorbell. “I know you don’t buy into that holiday spirit bollocks, but are you even trying this year?

Arthur stood in his joggers and ratty tee. He put on his best scowl; the one reserved for dinners with Father and work subordinates. It was 10pm, and Gwaine’s idiocy had disturbed him from his much-needed wank for the third time in a week.

Technically Gwaine wasn’t even his neighbour, just the dosser shagging Eira, the divorcée downstairs. Why the concierge continued to let Gwaine into the building, Arthur would never know, but he liked his company and they got on well enough.

Of course, Gwaine didn’t need to know that.

Arthur slapped Gwaine’s hand off the doorbell. “What do you want now?”

“A nightcap for starters. Eira’s a recovering alcoholic; her cabinets are as dry as the Mojave. “

“Right. And you thought you’d beg liquor from me by barging in and slandering my decorating?”

“Have you seen the other flats in the building?” Gwaine asked, sneaking past Arthur’s folded arms and inside the warm flat.

He sighed as Gwaine waltzed to the sideboard Arthur kept his alcohol in. He slid the door open, helping himself to two crystal tumblers and an amber bottle. Arthur didn’t bother looking at the year Gwaine was pouring two fingers of because, knowing him, he’d nicked the oldest whiskey in the cabinet.

“Your neighbours two doors down hung holly wreaths, hell, some even have lights!” Gwaine said merrily. “And Eira has a blow up-"

Arthur jammed his index fingers into his ears, what was left of his earlier erection flagging. “I don’t need to know the toys you and the woman downstairs play with.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but it’s a Snowman. She also has a tree, mistletoe, and what do you have, Princess? A fucking candy cane taped to your front door?”

And here Arthur thought he’d done well this year. In the days leading up to Christmas he’d purchased two candy canes, intending to place them on the mantle. The fact that he’d been starving after a meeting and gobbled one was irrelevant. And, once he’d had a taste for them, the only way to resist eating the second was to tape it to the front door as décor.

“What, you don’t like candy canes?”

Gwaine left the kitchen. He plopped onto the sofa, tumblers In hand. “You are like the Ebenezer Scrooge of Kensington,” he announced.

“Well then, bah-fucking-humbug,” Arthur grumbled back, kicking Gwaine’s trainers off of his £500 coffee table and slamming closed his laptop (which was still open and streaming a muted porn).

Gwaine’s brow arched as he peered at the PC.

“Twinks your type, Princess?” he asked, handing Arthur a tumbler. “And all this time I had you pegged a bear lover... Rarr!” He unbuttoned his shirt again, grabbing Arthur’s hand and rubbing it dramatically across his hairy pecs.

Arthur gripped his glass tighter, shoving Gwaine back. “Sod off! If you came here to drink me out of house and home, at least do it with your mouth shut and your clothes on!”

“Cheers to that. So, Ebby…”

“Ebby?”

“It’s short for Ebenezer, and don’t’ interrupt me,” Gwaine laughed, steadying himself before drinking. “About your decoration predicament, it just so happens that I’ve a mate who works on a Christmas tree farm only an hour’s drive from London. Why don’t you go there this weekend and buy yourself a tree, or a wreath, or a house elf or some shite?”

_A tree?_

Arthur closed his eyes, letting a memory of a grand ballroom illuminate the black behind his lids. The crux of the memory wasn’t the ballroom, but the towering tree commanding the space. Arthur remembered its straight blue-green bows, and the crisp smell of fir-needles that had always heralded Christmas at Pendragon Manor.

He hadn’t celebrated a real Christmas in years. His refusal to take over the family business (how dare Arthur be content as a government forensic accountant when he could be owner and chief shareholder of Camelot Ltd) had reduced him to primitive speaking terms with his father (yes’s, no’s, and grunts over the phone).

His relationship with his half-sister was equally rocky. After a moving abroad, Morgana only ever called Arthur to remind him in a dozen fancy-words how much he bored her.

Arthur opened his eyes to Gwaine looking quietly at him through the bottom of his tumbler.

Bollocks. Maybe he should try decorating his flat this year, if only to keep up appearances with the neighbours and shut Gwaine up (he was bound to come round and complain another fifteen times before Boxing Day).

“A friend of yours, hmm?” Arthur drawled between sips of whiskey. “Does that mean there would be a discount involved in this purchase?”

Gwaine winked, slamming down his empty glass. “Of course, Ebby. I know how you Scroogey types hate to part with a pound if you can help it.”

Arthur thought he’d taken the wrong exit until a roundabout funnelled him through snow flurries and towards a shiny sign reading ‘Ealdor’. He followed it past a quaint market town, a green maze popping into view at the belly of a valley.

A towering fibreglass snowman stood sentry at the entrance of the Ealdor Tree Farm, its body tall as a house. The thing appeared to be as old as Christmas itself, its round belly flaking paint, right arm bent in a wave meant to lure customers inside.

Arthur obeyed the snowman, easing his Mercedes into the bog that apparently passed for a car park. Criss-crossed tire tracks and snow had softened the ground to rice pudding. Arthur got out of his car, his dress shoes squeaking with each soggy step. He should have had the foresight to bring boots and a coat, or at least to change out of his suit before leaving work.

He shivered and sniffed, a waft of clean pine-scent filling his nostrils.

Luckily, the grounds of the tree farm were better kept than its car park. Gravel paths forked into a village of festive wooden sheds; each packed to the rafters with ribbons, wreaths, mistletoe, and other holiday fare. One shed in particular, judging by the long queue and the delicious aroma, also served as a snack stop.

Arthur cupped a hand to his brow, peering into the labyrinth of powder-dusted trees before him. The farm’s sign wasn’t exaggerating when it claimed to carry the most-varied selection of Christmas trees south of London. Even standing on tiptoe and stretching his neck, Arthur couldn’t see the end of the man-made forest.

He walked in further; picking at wreaths and baubles along his way. The smaller trees were huddled near the entrance, not staked through their trunks with wooden x’s, but grown in bright containers.

These saplings were for infants and impulse buyers, of which Arthur was neither. If he was going to buy a tree he needed a regal looking one, something _bigger_.

As if on cue, Arthur watched a giant trudge out of the pretend forest. He was wearing a plaid shirt with the sleeves cut off (In the snow, no less!), left arm easily lifting a long potted pine with a trunk as thick as his bicep.

The giant huffed and dropped the tree to the ground, kneeling beside it with a crack of his back. Surely this lumberjack would know where Arthur could find a suitably sized tree?

“Hey!” Arthur called.

“Can I help you?” The giant replied, dabbing sweat from his brow with a handkerchief.

“I’m looking for a noble fir,” Arthur pointed to the tree next to the giant. “One about that size.”

A friendly nod from the giant, “The nobles are past the wreath shed, down Reindeer Path. Look for the bloke in the penguin jumper, Merlin. He’ll help you.”

“Thanks.” Arthur did as directed until he reached an outcropping of tall trees. Now this was more like it.

He circled one, checked the tag and jumped at the price. £169.00 for a hunk of dead wood? That had to be a mistake!

He looked the tree over again. Correction, the tree was expensive but it wasn’t dead. In fact it was very much alive, and planted in a container like the smaller trees and the one the giant had carried. Arthur had never been to a tree farm before (not even as a child, his father wouldn’t have approved of the drive nor the dirt), but he was certain this wasn’t how they were supposed to work.

Twenty minutes of examination passed before Arthur found the tree he wanted, a specimen with glossy needles, a straight trunk, and even, sprawling branches. _Perfect_. All Arthur had to do now was find an employee to help him hack it down.

He looked around for assistance, two children cackling openly at him (clearly these brats had never seen a man in an Armani suit shopping for a Christmas tree before). He stuck his tongue out at them, the children weaving and giggling between trees as their parents chatted with a tall skinny bloke.

When the bloke turned briefly, Arthur glimpsed a dark Caesar haircut and hideous Christmas jumper. This had to be the ‘Merlin’ the giant had mentioned. He waited until tall bloke had finished talking with the customers, then made his approach.

“You! Are you Merlin?” Arthur called.

Tall bloke looked back at him with an easy smile. It was the kind of smile Arthur always tried to mimic in photos but failed at miserably, never having that level of inner contentment to draw from. Yes, despite tall bloke’s jumper he had an undeniably gorgeous smile. A smile worth capturing for posterity in one’s thoughts.

When tall bloke replied to Arthur, his voice was equally pleasant. “I am. So, let me guess, you’re either here to audit my farm or you’re looking to buy a tree?” he, Merlin, quipped.

Arthur glanced down at his suit. Why on earth hadn’t he taken the extra half-hour to go home and change after work? Not knowing what else to do, he straightened his tie and tried to look authoritative (Which always worked well at work, at least when he was reporting non-compliant activity to law enforcement agencies).

“I’m just looking for a tree,” Arthur replied calmly.

“Glad to hear it, uh…”

“Arthur.”

Merlin’s hands clapped together. “Arthur. Brilliant. Now, are you looking for any particular type? We cultivate them all here, Nordmann Firs, Douglas Firs, Afghan Pines, Scotch Pines, Noble Firs-“

“A Noble Fir, but I’ve already found the one I want to take home.”

“Wonderful, show me.”

He brought Merlin to his tree, listening as Merlin exhaled a low whistle.

“Oh yes…” he said approvingly. “That one’s a beauty,” he walked up to the fir, running his fingers through its powdery branches with the solemnity of a handshake. ”This tree has the perfect bearing for a centrepiece. Judging by the size I’d say it’s, five, maybe six years old. Just imagine how many creatures have scurried up that trunk and perched on these handsome branches!”

Apparently, this Merlin fellow was as crazy as he was fit. A shame, thought Arthur, to have such striking cheekbones wasted on a nutter. “It’s… a nice tree,” he said cautiously. “So could you chop it down for me?”

Merlin’s smile extinguished. “Oh no… No, no, no,” he tutted, “We don’t do that here.”

“Don’t what?”

“Cut down trees. Ealdor Tree Farm is a container-grower. That’s a no-kill grower, in layman’s terms.”

Arthur scratched his forehead. “You don’t cut down trees? That’s contradictory for a Christmas tree supplier.”

“We sell Christmas trees, yes, but we prefer not to ‘harvest’ and process them like other tree farms do. That’s just cruel.”

What kind of madness was this? He looked Merlin over to gauge his sincerity, but Merlin’s straight bearing and proud eyes didn’t lie.

“You expect me to bring a full-grown living tree into my flat?” Arthur snapped.

“Of course not. That fir isn’t full grown.”

“You,” Arthur said, throwing his hands up, “are missing my point entirely. In January I’ll have no need for a tree, and then where am I supposed to put it? In the garden I don’t own? On my tenth-story balcony? I can’t toss it in the bins like a normal Christmas tree now, can I?”

“No, you’re right, you shouldn’t toss it.”

Arthur’s pulse throbbed behind his temples. “Then what do you expect your customers to…this… this farm has the most flawed business model I’ve ever seen!”

Merlin chuckled, his grin back in full force. He scratched his chin thoughtfully. “I expect you to sell it back to me at the end of the holiday season.”

“You — what?”

“You didn’t read our mission statement at the farm entrance, did you? To paraphrase, here at Ealdor we believe in growing Christmas trees in a sustainable and ethical fashion, container-growing. It’s wasteful and wrong to harvest trees the old fashioned way, so we’ve come up with a better solution,”

He licked his lips; curling four fingers closed to point at Arthur’s tree. “This tree, the tree you picked, has passed through many different hands and homes in its lifetime. The reason our prices seem steep is because we ‘rent’ out our trees every year, letting our customers sell them back to us in January with a guaranteed 60% refund of the purchase cost. We can even arrange a pick up service, so it’s a complete win-win situation, win for the world, and win for the customer. Now tell me that concept doesn’t interest you just a little?”

Arthur shook his head. “It’s ridiculous.”

“After eight years I’m not out of business yet, ridiculous or not, my method is working. So, are you still going to buy this handsome tree?

Arthur toed closer to the plant. He touched its branches, the way Merlin had, feeling the needles prickle his skin. Try as he may, he didn’t feel differently about the tree, or its price tag, than he had five minutes ago. It was still a fine tree, despite the annoying fact that it was alive, and a 60% refund did sound promising. But returning a tree to Ealdor in January seemed like a lot of commitment for a man who couldn’t even keep goldfish alive.

“Live trees aren't any more difficult to take care of,” Merlin pressed, as if reading Arthur’s mind. He leaned closer, butting Arthur’s bicep with his elbow. “In fact, they shed fewer needles so there’s less mess to clean.”

There it was, that smile again, paired with a look of hope in Merlin’s eyes so earnest Arthur couldn’t even tease the wanker over it.

Arthur shook the snowflakes from his fringe, shivering a little. He’d already driven all this way and stood in the freezing cold. Was he really going to leave the tree farm empty handed?

“Fine, I’ll take it,” he sighed, scrubbing a hand across his face. “But my mate Gwaine promised me that if I came here I’d get a ‘friends’ discount. Please tell me that still applies?”

Merlin’s mouth formed a circle. “Oh. You're one of Gwaine’s ‘friends’, are you?

The longer Merlin stared, the longer Arthur felt like he’d gone and cocked things up. “Is that a problem?” he asked.

Merlin’s pupils tripled, “What, no, of course not,” he said, gaze hitting the ground. “I was… surprised, that’s all. You don’t seem like Gwaine’s usual type.”

“What? No! No, Gwaine and I aren’t —I’m not like that!”

“How do you figure?"

“For starters, I don’t pull everything with a pulse.”

Merlin raised a coy eyebrow, Arthur cutting himself short with a cough. Bugger. What if Merlin was one of Gwaine’s many friends-with-benefits he was always bragging about (Merlin was, dare he admit it, attractive enough), and he’d just acted like a complete arse in front of him?

“Look,” Arthur said, massaging his forehead. “Truthfully, I barely know Gwaine. He’s my neighbour, and technically he isn’t even that. If he floats your boat, fine, but to me he’s like the Titanic; unexpected, loud, and when you put a bottle between us it's likely neither one of us is leaving my flat alive.”

Merlin snorted softly.

“So can I still buy the tree at a discount or not?” Arthur pressed.

After a sniffled attempt to hide it, Merlin’s laughter peeled out full force. “Wait, I’m sorry, but, did you think that Gwaine and I?” another snicker, “He’s Percy’s paramour, not mine!”

“Percy?”

“The big bloke who works for me, with arms like barbells? Don’t know what arrangement they have, but it seems to work well for them. Regular rabbits, I've had to reprimand them about snogging in front of the customers,” Merlin said, a smile crinkling his almond-shaped eyes.

Listening to Merlin rambling about snogging had Arthur blushing from the tips of his ears down to his chest. Why the hell was his body acting like this? He didn’t usually have this problem with attractive men, women, or anyone really.

But there was just something about Merlin…

Merlin dropped his hands into his pockets. “Look, Arthur, I’ll tell you what, I’ll give you ten pounds off the tree for being Gwaine’s mate, and another five for making you blush,” he said, blushing a little himself.

Arthur nodded quickly, handing Merlin a crumpled wad of notes without bothering to count them.

Telling Merlin that he’d be fine on his own and stubbornly dragging an eight-foot tall fir tree to the car park had been Arthur’s first mistake. His second was not bringing more rope in the boot, which would have been the sensible thing to do before driving to a bloody Christmas tree farm.

Merlin had wrapped the tree snug enough, fitting a net around its branches and securing its plastic container with enough wrapping to mummify it. Upsettingly, this didn’t keep the sap from congealing in clumps on Arthur’s nicest suit jacket.

He shoved his fir tree beside his Mercedes, hurling his tie and jacket into the back seat and rolling his trousers to his ankles to avoid getting filthier. With a manly grunt, Arthur shouldered the tree, planting one foot on the snow-dusted bumper in an attempt to shove it, ever so gently, onto the roof.

He’d almost done it too, until his muddy dress shoe slipped, Arthur tumbling backward, as the tree broke loose from his grip.

A shattering crunch and a horrific slam jolted Arthur arse-first into the mucky car park as well as the present.

A confessions worth of curses later, Arthur trudged back to the tree farm. He took his mobile out of his pocket for the ninth time, willing the five black dots in the corner to light, but it appeared that shoddy mobile reception (and leaving his AA card in his other car), threatened to trap him in Ealdor permanently.

When he reached the entrance Merlin was leaning cross-legged against a shed, as if he’d expected Arthur’s return and subsequent humiliation.

“Would it be possible? Err… Could you please call me a recovery lorry?” Arthur mumbled through his chattering teeth.

“You came here completely unprepared.” Merlin sighed.

Arthur nodded back. He wasn’t sure if he was agreeing about the shattered windscreen and ruined suit that buying a Christmas tree had cost him, or how his heart hiccupped whenever Merlin shook his head at him from the driver’s seat.

That smile, and the wretchedly wonderful things it was doing to Arthur’s insides. He’d insisted that he’d be fine getting home on his own. He could call a taxi, or arrange for a hired car out of pocket, but Merlin would hear none of it.

“I’m helping you, you prat, so stop making this difficult,” he’d huffed, pulling keys from his pocket. “You’re a friend of a friend, and my customer. I’m obliged to make sure this tree goes home safely with you, and besides, you should get indoors and wash up before you freeze to death.”

Arthur stared out the passenger window of Merlin’s lorry, watching the ochre sunset bleed into the sleepy town of Ealdor behind them.

It was a handsome little lorry, a vintage Albion Tipper, mustard yellow, and newly restored judging by the factory leather smell and modern dash. Normally, Arthur would have been content playing passenger in a vintage restoration, if it wasn’t for the horrible state of his person.

His grimy trousers were rolled over his knees, expensive dress shoes discarded. He hadn’t remembered to take his suit jacket out of his Mercedes before the recovery lorry arrived, so Merlin had lent Arthur his penguin jumper, insisting Arthur also take some tea for the ride to ‘warm his bones’.

The jumper had the illusion of softness, but was scratchy as fleas and fit like a straightjacket in the chest. Every time Arthur lifted his arms to drink he felt like seams were bursting open in the pits.

But, other than the jumper, the ride was pleasant. Inside the tiny cab was comfortably quiet, Merlin watching the road whilst humming to holiday music on the radio.

“Did you drive here straight from work?” he asked conversationally.

Arthur frowned, scratching the spot where the jumper met his neck. “Yeah.”

“Thought so. Not many people put on a suit to buy a tree. So, you work on Saturdays?”

“It happens from time to time in my line of work.”

“And that is?”

“Forensic accounting.”

“That’s rough, mate.”

“No rougher than hauling pine trees. At least I sit in a chair all day and get paid overtime,” Arthur replied curtly.

Merlin laughed. “Sure, but I like my job! You know, it’s going to be a long ride,” he said, positioning the heater vent so warm air pooled over Arthur’s legs. “If you’re feeling tired, don’t worry about making small talk. You’ve already given me your address, why don’t you close your eyes and take a rest?”

There was a lump in Arthur’s throat, so thick he couldn’t swallow the dregs of his tea past it. He wasn’t used to people fussing over him. He hated it, and most of his friends weren’t foolish enough to try (let alone a stranger like Merlin).

Maybe it was because Merlin was a stranger, or because of how calmly he spoke that Arthur actually listened to him, closing his eyes and pretending to be asleep until he actually was.

Warmth pressed against Arthur’s shoulder, tickling across his cheek.

“Time to wake up.”

“Five more minutes,” Arthur groaned, nuzzling his face into the comforting heat that should have been his goose-down pillow.

“Wake up, Arthur. Up and at em’.”

He lifted his heavy eyelids, discovering that the warmth he’d been snuggling into wasn’t a something, but a someone’s hand shaking his shoulder.

Arthur jerked back as Merlin moved his hand away, quirking an eyebrow at Arthur from the open passenger door. “I see you slept well,” he said fondly.

“Must have dozed off for a minute.”

“More like fifty,” Merlin laughed. “But this is your place, yes?”

Arthur rubbed his eyes, taking in the creamy white façade of the historic building. Yes, this was his place all right. He nodded, getting out of the car and looking for his keys, which were thankfully still tucked inside his trouser pocket.

Together he and Merlin rolled the tree out of the lorry, bending and hauling until they reached the lobby entrance.

The concierge (a curly-haired man with a name tag reading ‘Leon’) gasped at Arthur’s approach. He whirled out of the front desk, rushing to meet them.

“Mr Pendragon, are you alright?” he asked, yanking open the doors, gaze stagnating on Arthur’s tight penguin jumper.

Merlin bent his knees, easing his edge of the container onto the marble floor. Arthur followed suit. “I’m perfectly fine,” he replied, breathless.

“But, sir, where are your shoes… “

At this Merlin giggled, Arthur puffing out his chest. He wasn’t in the mood for a critique on his appearance, especially from a man in a starched concierge uniform.

“Yes, Leon, I’ve lost my shoes. Thank you so much for noticing. As you can see I’m preoccupied, so, if you’ll excuse me, I’m headed for the lifts-”

“About the lifts, sir,” Leon called, clearly uncomfortable with interrupting an angry tenant. “They’re broken.”

“Both of them?”

“Yes sir.”

“But, how is that-”

“An electrical failure, sir. Maintenance is getting right on the repair work. They say it shouldn’t take more than three hours' time.”

An elderly woman shuffled into the lobby, flagging Leon with a shaky wave. “If you’ll please excuse me, Mrs Jacobs needs my attention.” He pardoned, leaving Merlin and Arthur locked in a staring contest of disbelief that could have no true winner.

“What now?” Merlin asked, wetting his lips.

Arthur groaned into his hands. “We cut the tree to pieces, carry them upstairs, and glue them back together. Or burn it. Do you have a lighter on you?”

“No,” Merlin replied, shaking his head. “We carry it upstairs.”

“But that’s ten flights!”

Merlin pursed his lips, left hand falling square on his hip. “I can do ten flights, easy,” he drawled.

Brilliant, a fitness challenge from a sassy tree farmer, now what was he supposed to do? If he declined he’d look like a girls blouse, but if he accepted that meant ten flights of pure-

“You’ll be fine, Arthur.” Merlin said. “You look fit enough to me.”

Did Merlin just…was that flirting? Bugger. Now Arthur really couldn’t disappoint him. “Shut up and pick up the bloody tree,” he replied, ripping off his dirty socks before clambering to his feet.

Arthur shouldered the container (where most of the weight was) letting Merlin balance and direct, which had gone brilliantly until the cold cement of the emergency staircase started to numb Arthur’s toes.

He groaned, shifting his weight from foot to foot while making sure he didn’t drop the tree. He’d already pulverised a windscreen because of it, the last thing he needed was to drop the tree again and end up in A&E with a broken foot.

Five flights in, and the weight tested both of their endurance limits. They called time at the sixth floor, dropping the tree long enough to wheeze and stretch their burning joints.

“Fuck,” Merlin panted, stumbling against the wall. He slouched down, using the hem of his shirt to mop his glistening forehead.

Arthur, crouched two-stairs down himself, stared at the pale crescent of Merlin’s skin. Merlin was skinny, but the muscles in his stomach were hard and well defined. Sparse soft-looking hair trailed from Merlin’s navel into the waistband of his denims, and despite hyperventilating, Arthur had the strong urge to run his fingers down it and see how far the trail really went.

“Ready?” Merlin called, dropping his shirt.

Arthur felt ready, though for something else entirely. Blood pounded in his ears, and he shook his head, praying the last five floors wouldn’t be as soul crushing as the first.

They were.

Arthur barely got inside his flat, his arms atrophied from the most intense workout he’d had in years. It had taken a shaking hand and encouragement from Merlin for Arthur to _get the sodding door open_ , keys slipping from his fingers four times at least.

They both agreed that the tree could survive a minute outside while they gathered their wits.

Arthur collapsed face-first onto his sofa. “Never again. Never… Ever…”

“Come on, it wasn’t that bad!” Merlin called from behind.

“Easy for you to say when I was carrying all the weight!”

“And what a fine job you did, gold star work. Now, is your fat head going to take up the whole sofa or can I sit down there too?”

Too exhausted to snark, Arthur rolled onto half of the sofa, jabbing an index finger towards the empty space at his right.

Merlin caught his drift, falling backwards into the cushions with a loud ‘omph’. 

His hair was slicked back on his forehead, cheeks red as hearts. Arthur was no better himself; the jumper that was a warm (if not itchy) blessing an hour ago was now stuck to his back like dough on an ungreased pan.

“Of course the lift had to be broken,” Arthur hissed.

They looked at each other, chuckling hoarsely at the sheer ridiculousness of their situation.

“Of course,” Merlin agreed. “And, fine, I’ll admit carrying the tree upstairs was harder than I thought it would be. Why couldn’t your posh arse have lived on the ground floor?”

Arthur shook his head and lobbed a cushion at Merlin (that missed), thinking that the lifting wasn’t the only thing hard about this situation. Seeing Merlin collapsed on his sofa, panting and oh-so pliant was stirring Arthur in ways he couldn’t exactly ignore.

It was fair to say that they were both sweaty messes, but at least Merlin looked appealing that way. His clothes weren’t muddy and he still had both his shoes. Arthur wiggled a bare toe, looking at his feet that seemed both hobbit-ish and dusty in the light.

“Do you mind if I get cleaned up before we bring the tree in?” he asked. “I won’t take more than a minute.”

“S’fine.”

“OK, I’ll…” he eased off of the sofa, looking Merlin square in the eye. “I’ll be right back. You can make yourself at home, but don’t take anything. If you need a drink, help yourself in the kitchen. Glasses are in the cupboard on the right.”

“What a gallant host, assuming the company is going to steal cutlery,” Merlin said, rolling his eyes.

“I didn’t, I was-“

“Joking, I know. Shoo, and I promise I won’t burn down your flat trying to turn on the tap,” he replied, motioning Arthur away with his hand.

A mad dash to the shower took ten minutes, picking apart his wardrobe for an outfit that subtly said, _I’d be an amazing shag, in case you were wondering_ , eating another ten. Arthur decided on a pair of boot cut denims, and a polo shirt completed by a gray cashmere jumper.

By the time he was clean and dressed, Merlin was standing next to the fir tree, which had been carefully moved inside and placed in the V of space between Arthur’s living room curtains.

“I see you’ve been hard at work. That looks perfect,” Arthur grinned.

Merlin’s mouth fell, lips mouthing what looked like a silent, _Could say the same for you_ , when Arthur walked into the room.

As Merlin appraised him, Arthur felt the energy between them change. Before it had been thick as syrup and heavy as their combined exhaustion, but now... Now it was static, like every move they made was charging up for a bigger spark.

“Um, Merlin, I’ve been thinking about the cost and,” he whipped out his billfold, counting out ninety pounds.

“I can’t accept that!” Merlin scoffed, ducking from the notes.

Arthur shoved them into his hand, curling Merlin’s fingers over the money. Not just because he wanted an excuse to touch him, but also because he genuinely wanted Merlin to accept what he’d offered.

“You can, and you will. I paid for a tree, not a body-servant. This should help cover the petrol and your time.”

“But-“

“It’s the least I can do. Close your mouth and take it.”

Merlin stuffed the money into his pocket, forcing Arthur into a brief hug.

That’s when Arthur felt the shock he’d been waiting for, a wave of longing that prickled his skin.

‘Thank you,” Merlin sighed; as if it were normal to hug a man he’d just met. Letting Arthur go again, he said, “The instructions on how to take care of the tree are on the tag, along with my number. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to call me. Anytime, any hour.”

Was it Arthur’s imagination, or had the word ‘anytime’ been deliberately inflected?

“I’ll try not to kill it,” Arthur replied.

“You better not, it was hell getting it up here.”

“I won’t, and drive safe.”

“Have… have a Happy Christmas, Arthur,” Merlin said with a cool air of disappointment.

Once he was alone, Arthur turned to the noble fir, watching the streetlights halo its heavy branches. Arthur had a tree now, but somehow his flat didn’t feel festive, only smaller and colder than it had before Merlin had left.

Arthur held out on calling Merlin until he’d crafted a foolproof pickup line.

“I have your jumper,” he said over his mobile. “And you have something I want.”

Merlin’s laughter rustled against his ear, “And what would that be?”

“Ornaments. Please tell me you carry Christmas ornaments, Merlin, because I have a tree that’s been standing bare in my living room for four days and I have no clue how to trim it.”

A low sigh from Merlin, “Don’t you have family to help with that? A girlfriend?”

Arthur froze, not sure what to do or say next. He’d been so certain he’d read all the signs right. That Merlin fancied him, and that he’d made a mistake in letting Merlin leave his flat without giving him his number, but now…

“I’m sorry. I…I shouldn’t have bothered you.”

“Wait, Arthur!” Merlin yelped, background bells and voices buzzing between his words. “I didn’t mean anything by that, I just assumed — forget what I assumed and leave everything to me! I’ll give you a Christmas to remember. I promise.”

They’d agreed, or rather Arthur had insisted, that he would drive to the farm where Merlin would help him hand-select decorations from their inventory.

“You driving is out of the question; you said your car is still at the garage,” Merlin had replied.

As was becoming habit with them, Merlin’s staunch opposition only cemented Arthur’s stubbornness further.

“There are things called hire cars, Merlin. Besides, if you drive to London and I hate what you bring me, you’ll have to haul it all back,” Arthur countered hotly.

Merlin eventually caved, and that was how Arthur found himself back in Ealdor (and this time properly dressed), a hoppy Merlin bounding past the entrance to greet him. 

It was no longer snowing outside, but that didn’t stop Merlin from embarrassing himself by wearing another garish jumper with penguins on it.

“I want to show you something special, Arthur. Trust me, you’ll love it!” he said.

He grabbed Arthur’s arm, dragging him through the carpark. Arthur had no clue what Merlin was up to until he released his grip, the two of them staring up at a 20 foot tall frost giant in severe need of a paint job.

“The snowman?” Arthur gaped. “That’s what we waded through the bog to see? "Merlin, I hate to disappoint you but it’s visible from space. I’ve already seen it."

Merlin giggled, taking out his keys. “How does that old saying go, it’s not what’s on the outside that counts?” He felt alongside the snowman’s voluptuous roll until his fingers hit a keyhole.

“You mean you can go inside this thing?”

The door creaked and clanked as Merlin opened the snowman’s thigh, dust dotting the air. He beckoned Arthur inside.

Arthur followed, blinking blackness as Merlin pulled a dangling string. Light illuminated the room, casting long shadows across the crooked floorboards. Arthur assumed it came from the bare bulb hanging from the the snowman’s skull, but some of it appeared to shine through blue windows that served as the snowman’s eyes.

The walls inside were surprisingly square, plastered in pale-pink wallpaper mouldy with age and nibbled by moths. A table sat in the centre of the room, covered in the remnants of a card game and flanked by two spindly chairs. Beside the table stood a storage shelf, a box of dirty wellies, and a coat rack overburdened with scarves and hats.

“What is this place?”

“Break room,” Merlin grinned. “Though it was originally built as ‘Father Christmas’s House’. That gimmick didn’t last long though, my uncle never could pull off the beard.”

Merlin walked to the storage shelf, picking up a cardboard box double the width of his ribcage.

“I put these aside for you," he said, wiping the cards aside with a sweep of his arm and laying down the box. “Everything a Christmas tree could possibly need is in here, and I do mean everything! Lights, bulbs, crackers, ornaments, even tinsel if you want it."

“I was hoping for something simple. Traditional.” Arthur replied.

Merlin’s lips curled. "Thought you’d say that."

He dipped his hand into the box, pulling out two different sized orbs. “These are your traditional red and gold bulbs. If you use them, you can top the tree off by stringing white fairy lights through the branches and crowning it with a star. How does that sound?”

“Great, I suppose.”

“And how’s the tree?”

“If you’re asking me if I’ve killed it yet, the answer is no.”

“Good man. I knew you'd manage.”

They went through the boxes of bulbs, checking for flaws and counting to make sure they had enough to cover Arthur’s tree. Once they’d settled on a number, Merlin grabbed a handful of newspaper, the two of them wrapping the ornaments up.

“What got you into the Christmas tree business?” Arthur asked, helping Merlin untangle the string of fairy lights he’d insisted Arthur needed. “It’s a rather unusual career choice.”

He watched Merlin pack the rest of the decorations, sorting them into a smaller cardboard box he’d pulled from the shelf.

“It’s a family business. Would you believe that I was a history major in London, once-upon-a-time ago? “ Merlin said, shaking his head. “Mum insisted I that I go to uni after secondary school, but when my uncle was ready to retire my second year in, he asked me if I’d like to take over the farm instead. I thought about it, about where I wanted to be twenty years from then-“

“And you decided that you’d prefer to be inside a giant snowman?” Arthur smiled with genuine fondness.

“Something like that,” Merlin chuckled. “It’s difficult for most people to understand, but I just couldn’t see myself happy living anywhere but Ealdor. This may have been my uncle’s farm, but I’m running it my way now. That’s got to count for something.”

“Certainly. Every man should forge his own path. His own destiny,” Arthur replied, feeling a pang of sympathy as he considered the sacrifice he’d made to keep his own career.

“And what about you, Arthur? No offense, but judging by your flat, you don’t strike me as the celebratory type. Why bother with a tree?”

Rubbing his neck, Arthur said, “I’m not. Well, I suppose I was when I was younger, but my family employed servants and decorators to take care of these things. Even if I was interested in decorating for the holidays, I honestly wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Servants? Did they have uniforms, or were they the enchanted furniture type?”

When Merlin mimicked a cheesy Disney dance number, Arthur laughed louder and longer than he had in years.

“Neither,” he sighed, wiping his eyes. “And trust me, it wasn’t as glamorous as it sounds. But, I suppose I should thank Gwaine for forcing me to start new traditions. It’s been years since I’ve done anything remotely ‘festive’.”

“So that’s why you don’t have any ornaments of your own to decorate with? No birth mementos or snow-globes packed away?”

“People really do that?”

“Of course. Mum hangs up my baby boots on the tree every year. She even made an ornament out of my first tooth.”

“Strange.”

“It is, but what can I do? Mum’s a holiday spirit in every sense of the word. She wasn't keen on me quitting school, but now she knits me jumpers to wear every December when I open the farm. Oh, and she also bakes treats for the snack cottage, when I don't eat them all first."

“That’s right, before I forget, I brought you your jumper.” Arthur said, reaching down to hand Merlin a brown bag with the neatly folded garment inside.

Merlin blushed, handing Arthur the bag back. “Keep it, in the spirit of new traditions. It’s no first tooth ornament or snow-globe, but I thought it looked good on you.”

Arthur held the jumper in his hands, thumbing the wool. It was ugly, small, and something he would never have wanted. But because it was Merlin’s gift, something his mum had made, it felt more valuable than Arthur could express.

“You like penguins, huh?” he swallowed, placing the bag gingerly on the table.

“They’re not my favourite bird, but I like how some of them are gay.”

"Penguins are...happy?"

Merlin smiled. "I suspect they are that too, but that's not really what I meant."

Arthur’s eyebrows furrowed.

“Shite, I didn’t mean it as a homophobic slur! I'd never do that! I just meant that some penguins are legitimately gay, as in, they're one of several species known to have homosexual pairings, and nest together, and raise cute little fluffy chicks together and—“

Merlin bit his lip.

“And — Bollocks, of course you wouldn’t like penguins. You’re bloody gorgeous and probably straight as a spruce so I’ll shut up now.“

Arthur couldn’t catch all of Merlin’s babbling, but he was certain this conversation wasn’t about Penguins anymore.

“I’m not — I like them fine,” he blurted, feeling silly for saying it until Merlin stuttered a giddy, “You do?”

“Of course. Who doesn’t like penguins? Thank you, Merlin, for the jumper...”

Now Arthur knew that they were definitely not talking about penguins, because Merlin squeezed him into a hug for a second time, arms bracing Arthur’s back.

 _I should give him a gift too_ , Arthur thought. Money and chewing gum wouldn’t do, but what else did he have on his person to offer? He searched the room for inspiration, glancing at a petrified sprig of mistletoe dangling above them.

Arthur closed his eyes, licked his lips, and went for it.

Their noses knocked together, Merlin yelping in surprise.

Worst snog ever. Bugger it all.

“Mistletoe,” Arthur murmured, pointing up as a means of explanation and wishing himself dead.

Merlin massaged the bridge of his nose and Arthur moved to break away. He didn’t get far before Merlin crowded him in the tiny room, the two of them bumping chest to chest.

“I could teach you a little something about mistletoe,” Merlin said, leaning so close his lips ghosted over Arthur’s. “The druids thought it had magic properties. Used it in ceremonies to bring good luck, even for fertility...”

He slipped his hands into Arthur’s back pockets, squeezed his arse a little, and stunned Arthur with a kiss of his own. Arthur moaned contentedly as their lips met, unable to help himself.

Kissing Merlin was like kissing the clouds. His lips were plump as pillows, and the bastard knew exactly what to do with them, how to let his body melt tantalizingly against Arthur’s until the tension knotting between them made Arthur hot and greedy for more.

“Mmm…much better,” Merlin said, his voice hoarse and hungry. “The kissing tradition didn’t come from the druids though, that was the Norse, and the Victorians were the ones who modernised it. What better excuse than mistletoe for a tight-laced, thick-headed prat to finally show a person they’re interested?”

Arthur pulled Merlin closer by the neck of his jumper. “Are you calling me thick-headed?” he asked between more wet kisses and shaky breaths.

Merlin writhed against him; kneading Arthur’s arse with his hands as his tongue explored his mouth.

“I dropped hints, Arthur, more than once. I’d hoped you’d catch on before we went into frosty-“

“Picked this place on purpose, did you?”

“Secluded. Wanted to — hey, wait a minute! Are you accusing me of being a ho ho— Oh!“

Arthur took the opportunity to nuzzle Merlin’s jawline, sucking sharp little love bites down his neck until he gasped.

“Ah, yes, there,” Merlin rasped, arching up as Arthur kissed the fine skin where Merlin's neck and shoulder met. “Fuck, yes. Just like that.”

He continued caressing, fingers pushing back Merlin's jumper to stroke the soft trail of hair starting at Merlin’s navel, like he’d wanted to that first day.

Arthur was rewarded with a heavy sigh from Merlin. Merlin’s eyelashes fluttered as Arthur unbuttoned his denims, wiggling his hand inside to feel the hot weight of Merlin’s cock straining against his pants.

“But… there’s a limit, Arthur, to how many times you can kiss under mistletoe,” Merlin sighed. “You’re supposed to-“ a gasp from Merlin. “Every time you kiss you’re supposed take a berry off, and once you notice all the berries are gone-“

“Do bodies count?”

“Bodies?”

Arthur kissed Merlin’s mouth open again, whispering between his parted lips, “If I dropped on my knees and kissed your cock, would that count?”

Merlin’s legs wobbled under him. “Fuck,” he groaned, opening his mouth wider, nipping and sucking and kissing messy assurances against Arthur’s lips.

Arthur palmed Merlin’s pants, threading his right hand through the fly opening and massaging the long velvet length of Merlin's cock until it rewarded him with a pearl of pre-come.

“Is that a fuck yes?” Arthur groaned, “Or a fuck-“

Merlin whined, bucking softly into Arthur’s loose fist. “It’s a fuck the mistletoe, fuck the ornaments, fuck all of it, but-for god’s sake don’t you dare stop fucking me!”

“Happy Christmas!”

Gwaine stood at the door of Arthur’s flat, holding a red parcel whose outline looked suspiciously like a whiskey bottle.

“What do you want?” Arthur snorted, leaning against the doorframe as he chewed a green candy cane.

“Firstly, to know what happened to your clothes. Maid forget to do the laundry again?” Gwaine laughed, eyes raking over Arthur’s bare chest. “The real reason I’m here is to drop off your gift, but, since you did ask, a nightcap would be-“

“Is that Gwaine? Tell him to sod off, Percy’s expecting him at his place tonight!" A voice called from deep inside Arthur’s flat.

“You’ve got company, Ebby? On Christmas Eve of all nights?”

Arthur pushed the door open; revealing a twinkling tree in the livingroom, and a hot chocolate drinking penguin blanket-clad Merlin sprawled across his sofa. Merlin took a sip of his drink, grinning at Gwaine through the open door.

“As you can see, I’m very busy,” Arthur continued. “Pies to bake, presents to wrap.”

“And unwrap,” Merlin added.

Arthur smirked, clicking the candy cane contemplatively against his teeth. “Can you take a rain cheque, Gwaine?”

Gwaine’s eyebrows flew up. “Well, I’ll be. It looks like someone found the ghost of Christmas future and buggered him domestic. Hello there, Merlin, you’re looking dashing in your afghan this evening.”

Merlin waved, Arthur pulling a face. “Don’t you dare get any ideas you-“

“Put the holly-wreath on his head.” Merlin called.

“The what?” Arthur scoffed.

“The holly wreath, the one on the front door. Medieval people thought holly had magical powers and could drive demons away. I’ve always wanted an excuse to try it.”

Arthur plucked the wreath off of the door one-handed, jamming it on top of Gwaine’s skull.

“Oi,” cried Gwaine, swinging his gift wildly in defence. “That shite stings, and I’ll thank you not to ruin my hair!

“Didn’t work, Merlin. Gwaine’s still here.”

“I was wrong about you, Ebby.” Gwaine smirked, listening to Merlin and Arthur’s matching chuckles as he tugged the wreath off his head. “You didn’t need a tree to liven up your flat for the holidays after all. It looks like all you needed to cure your bah-humbugs was a Merlin.”


End file.
